


Seven Sins of Severus Snape

by riffraff84



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riffraff84/pseuds/riffraff84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape is not religious but even heathens have sins to confess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: - You've heard it all before so here it goes again, I don't profess to own any of the characters or plot co incidents with the Harry Potter series written by JK Rowling, contained within this story. All dirt, sex and other profanity is made from the sick genius of my own and while I use for my own and others amusements the character of JKR's stories, I do neither profit monetarily or legally from anything contained within these pages. All relative warnings related to this story are clearly indicated and should you be reading this story and take offence I accept no responsibility having warned you thoroughly before undertaking the project. If you sue, you won't make a dime so don't bother. RIFFRAFF.
> 
> WARNING: - Consider this your one and only warning. From here on in you’re on your own and any damage you cause yourself by reading this fic will be no ones fault but yours. This is a DARK FIC, specifically written for those of us who enjoy the ‘darker side’ of this ship and are adult enough to take it for what it is, an intimate piece of FICTION! This fic contains graphic sexual violence, language, character death and other nasties so if you’re of the old school ‘fluffy bunny’ club than I suggest reading some of my other fic’s, which can be found under my ‘author’ link. As for those of you game, I appreciate any feedback on this piece. I consider it my pet project and I am not afraid to admit I scare myself sometimes with some of this shit I come up with. Still enjoy the ride, and I hope you’re still with me at the end.

Seven Sins of Severus Snape

 

Chapter 1 (Pride)

He lay still on the floor, his cheek pressed flat to the damp stone beneath him. His breathing was shallow and labored, each breath sucking what little life left he clung onto. He was cold, his icy fingertips numb to the rough stones he’d scratched into in his moments of pain. The stench of rotting flesh still filled his nostrils, masking the familiar scents of his surroundings that might have comforted him in his need. Despite his losing battle, he refused to close his eyes. Stubborn till the end, there was no way he would not look death straight in the eye. If his father’s advice had meant anything to him as a child, it was that death came to you; you did not go looking for it. He knew better than to dwell on his past however, such morose times lay behind him and he would be damned if his last thoughts were of his father. 

Another wave of pain crippled his body. Already broken bones and torn muscles screamed in agony as he shuddered with each wave of fire that spread through his body. Just as quickly as it came it left, leaving him broken and alone with his thoughts once again. A thin trail of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and onto the stone floor beneath him. Had he the strength he might have spared the trickle a smearing wipe, but he knew movement was impossible. 

Nothing had ever prepared him for this. 20 years should have been ample time to come to terms with the inevitable but like most things unpleasant, this had snuck up on him. Like a nasty surprise, it had bitten him on the arse and he’d been powerless to stop it. 

He could hear others now the roar of magic had gone. The cries and whimpers of those around him, clinging to what remained of their own shattered bodies. He would not waste his energies on prayers to Merlin or cries of anguish for loved ones, why repent a life you knew you’d sacrificed the moment the boy was born. 

The boy. 

The reason they were all here, was the boy. Green eyes were all he dared to remember of the boy. The green eyes of the boy’s mother and the only reason he was lying here now. He would have done anything for those green eyes, even this. If his last memories were to be those green eyes, he would die a satisfied man. 

But death is cruel and life even crueler. 

There are voices now hurrying over corpses and rubble. The pitiful cries of those still able draw them closer, and he curses inwardly. To die alone, to face death with his pride still in tact was his only goal. He did not want them to see him broken, defeated and resigned to a fate he knew was inevitable but was still too blind to have seen it coming. 

“Severus!” Tears leak from his eyes, not in sadness but humiliation as he hears his name being called out among the many others. He will not close his eyes even as another surge of pain leaves him choking and gasping for air. In the darkness only shadows and movement can be seen but the shadows of darkness in the world, are better than those in the darkness of his mind. A soft wisp of air brushes past his face, the ghost of a robe as someone steps over him like he’s nothing. His bloodied, numb fingers dig into the stone, clinging desperately to what pride and dignity he might have left after such an act. Why could they not let him go with the shred of pride he had left? 

“Severus!” His name again is called out. This time the wave of pain has not stopped. He shakes uncontrollably, blood trickling like a river from his mouth as each breath he takes is like a knife through his chest. Another wisp of air wafts around him, but this time the shadow does not step over him. Instead he watches as the figure falls to his knees beside him, strong, time-wearied hands clutching at his shoulders to try and stop him from shaking so violently against the cold ground. “Severus,” He knows that voice. A voice that for years taught him everything he knows. “Hold on my boy, hold on.” He struggles to keep his eyes open as pain explodes behind them. The strong hands of his witness support his head but do little but provide shallow comfort. 

He will not die like this. 

20 years of sacrifice and he will die the same broken weak wizard he’d become in service. Using the pain as his drive, he pushes himself up using what strength he was saving to summon what’s left of his dignity. His arms quake under his weight as he reaches for his wand. 13 and a ½ inches of oak, with a snake skin core. Like a moth, with it’s wings trying to escape the surface tension of a pool, he struggles and ultimately fails. Collapsing in a heap his hands empty of its prize, and his death a disgrace he takes his final breath to glance up at his witness. 

With eyes open wide, he stares death in the face and remarks to himself that Death looks very similar to Albus Dumbledore. With his final breath gone, gone too is the pain and as he slips into veiled darkness his onyx eyes remain open, stubborn till the end.


	2. Sloth

Chapter 2 (Sloth)

He awakes with a start and a breathless choke to a partially darkened room. Sweat drips from his forehead and pools in the creases of his nose, the furrow of his brow and the corners of his lips. He can taste the salt of his own tears as he licks his parched lips reawakening the moisture he’s sucked dry during the night. Blinking twice he wipes at the sleep in his eyes before reaching to scrape the straggly lengths of inky black hair back into their untidy tie. He can already feel the heat of the day, and the pinpricks of light shining in through the moth eaten curtains tell already of the painfully bright sun. With a repressed sigh he stands up and slides on his silk robe. There might have been a time when he’d have given a damn about appearance but around here no one seems to notice anyway. Out of habit he collects the 13-½ inches of oak that have kept him alive these last 35 years and stows it securely in the fold of his robe before quietly padding out of the room. 

Following the well worn corridor floors he listens to the chaos of breakfast down below. No one should be as chirpy in the morning as those he shares this house with, and certainly not after the night he’s had. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs as two fiery red flashes of hair come flying past him, closely followed by a younger much angrier red head. They swear at each other as they disappear into the lounge. Had he the energy he might mutter an obscenity of his own but he can’t be bothered. 

All conversation ceases as he enters the kitchen, all eyes trained on him as he shuffles as dignified as possible into the room. He doesn’t bother to look up from the lino floor as he makes his way over to the pot of fresh tea hovering over the stove. He knows they heard him last night and undoubtedly saw the trails of his blood this morning on the living room floor beside the fireplace. They probably heard his screams of terror in the night unhindered like they should have been, had he had enough energy left to erect the wards around his room. Yet he doesn’t care. Let them hear his pain, let them see what they’ve reduced him to, let them know his time is nearly up. Reaching for the teapot his shaking hand is stopped by another kindly one that easily pours a large cup of the steaming liquid without comment. While he does not look up from the floor, in the reflection of the metal teapot he can see a face. The pale sickly complexion of the boy stares back at him in the shiny surface. No doubt the boy’s had just as tough a time of it in the night as he himself but he will not offer sympathy just as he does not expect it in return. 

“You shouldn’t be out of bed Severus.” How he hates that voice. Just as in his nightmares the constantly merry tone grates on his nerves. No one with as cunning and manipulative a mind as Albus Dumbledore should be able to act with such mirth all the time. This time he spares the elder wizard a glare over his shoulder as he cups the large mug of tea in his hands, taking comfort in its warmth. The glare is all that is needed to silence any further comment. Shuffling in pain he makes for the back door, nudging it open with his bruised hip accompanying it with a wince. Squinting in the obnoxiously bright sunshine he hobbles over to the padded garden chair and sits down. He knows he’s been followed but that was inevitable. There is only one in this house that would dare interrupt his solitude and just like his mother he’s damn irritating presence will linger even after he’s gone.

“I won’t let you go again.” The young, unbroken voice struggles with volume as the boy attempts a determined growl.

“I do not recall what authority you have over my behavior Mr. Potter?” Acid as always, his tongue is sharp and cutting. The boy doesn’t flinch though, too immune to the barb like comments he’s known for. He sighs a little in pain but sips from the warming liquid in the cup clutched in his hands. This morning he does not want company, especially not from the boy. This forced interaction is grating his already shredded nervous, he has not the patience for this. 

“He will kill you.” That statement is old, he’s heard it before from more mouths than just the boy’s. Perhaps he should have taken notice of the threat when it had first been uttered, but that was years ago and he’s in too deep now to retreat. A spike of pain jars his back as he reaches forward to put his cup aside. He hisses and closes his eyes. The boy is there, on his knees by his side in an instant. Those emerald green eyes stare up at him mirroring the pain he can see on the face before him. “Please.” It is a pitiful plea, so weak, so pleading. He opens his eyes, and he knows it’s a mistake. Staring into those bottle green windows on the boy’s face, will bring him to his death. Just as he was unable to resist his mother he crumbles under the weight, the pressure, the guilt too much. He shakes his head tightly, the action forced from his body by the strength of power behind those green eyes. The pull is stronger now than it’s been in weeks, and he leans forward towards the boy. This was not supposed to happen; this was not how he imagined living his life. Those thin, slightly chapped lips part in front of him, the boy’s eyes fluttering closed automatically as he closes the gap. He should not do it, should not give in to such sin when the shadow of Lily lingers still in his mind but he is powerless under the spell of those emerald eyes. 

“Harry, Ron’s looking for you.” He pulls back abruptly at the sound of the child’s godfather hovering in the doorway. The abrupt reaction sends spirals of pain through his entire being, wrenching an agonizing scream from his broken, abused body. He convulses in the chair, gasping for breath as the shadows of the pain his master inflicted on him the night before return to continue their damage. Hands splay over his body to try and calm his private agony, the soft fingertips of the boy reverently sooth over his bruised, hollowed cheeks. The pain passes far quickly than it should leaving him weakly slumped in the chair, the boy pressed fearfully against his heaving chest. Had he the energy he would push him away, cast himself free of his presence if only to find his miserable solitude. Why he does not make the effort to move him when his godfather still hovers above is not a concern. Perhaps it is just laziness that he cannot be bothered or maybe something else. Either way he knows it will be pointless; the boy is his life and his death…


	3. Gluttony

Chapter 3 – (Gluttony)

He knows it’s coming, can feel the ripple of tension across the room as he sits down awkwardly in the armchair by the fireplace. Sirius Black cannot resist such an opportunity, and will not think twice about kicking Snape while he’s down. The Black’s are not cowards but neither are they noted for their lost opportunities and he knows this. 

He is prepared. 

This morning’s display is something that will not go unpunished, and in a way he thinks he was asking for it. On a base level he enjoys the verbal sparing between them. Insults, low blows, wild accusations and presumptions remind him of his childhood that without Black might have been ordinary. 

The boy has gone to bed. Mothered and cajoled by his friends into agreeing to an early night for some rest. Not that any amount of sleep will drive away the nightmares they both suffer through night and day. He knows the boy is being protected, shielded from the troubled waters beneath a deceptively calm surface. Squashing down the lump of sympathy lodged in his throat he watches the movement of the other wizard in the room cautiously out of the corner of his eye. Like the dog he is Black circles him like pray. He is ready for the assault however as Black rounds his chair to confront him with an angry snarl. 

“You’re leading him on.” He snorts in mild amusement having predicted the very words the mutt now spits at him. The boy has an unrealistic crush, yet he is the one whom they all blame on the golden boy’s bad taste in men. He doesn’t dignify the comment with a response as he notices the room has emptied leaving just he and the flea bitten mongrel alone. “He idolizes you.” If that was not obvious to everyone already then the boy hadn’t been trying hard enough. 

“Jealous?” That comment earns him a well-aimed curse. It is childish to exchange silly curses like trading cards but it is an old habit they fall all too easily back into. He shakes the curse easily and glares as the dark haired wizard, whose wand wavers ever so slightly in his clenched fist. 

“What hold do you have over him? What curse have you placed on his head?” Accusations and presumptuous conclusions, just as he predicted it hadn’t taken long for the argument to deteriorate. He knows this routine like the scars on the backs of his hands. 

“Do you have so little respect for your godson that you’d believe him incapable of shaking anything I could throw at him Black?” He pauses for affect; let’s the petty minded dog process the insult before continuing. “Or are you still irritated the boy enjoys taking it up the arse like his father preferred.” Another curse. This one means business. Rising from the armchair having blocked the curse, he straightens himself above the angry wizard before him. Onyx eyes meet shadowed gray ones in silent challenge. This is what he wants, what the tension all day has been leading to. 

“I should have let Remus kill you when I had the chance and rid us all of your odious presence.” With the flick of a wrist the duel begins. Random items flare into flames as curses cut through the air like colored ribbon. He knows that neither of them will win, that although superior to the wizard he fights; he will not push him beyond what he knows he’s capable of. He should not be so fair in war, when he knows there would be no fairness should the roles be reversed. However he cannot help the fact he enjoys this. This restrained precarious tension that keeps their relationship on familiar ground.

As he watches the other wizard tire, his hair singed in places and smoking in others he weakens his own curses to match. They have both sustained injuries. Both of them have inflicted injuries upon the other enough to satisfy and placate the strained relationship between them for another few weeks. It is inevitable this will happen again, it is that knowledge that stays his hand as the dog lashes out with a final curse that leaves his already injured arm shredded of skin and fiery with pain. The room lies in a smoldering mess as he leaves clutching his arm to his heaving chest, while the boy’s bedraggled godfather collapses beside the fire in exhaustion. 

It will take most of the night for the curse to run its course and he will sit in the silence of his room, relishing the pain he had asked for in the first place. He should not enjoy this like he does, but he knows when the time comes again he will challenge the dog once more because he’s a glutton for punishment. A punishment he knows he deserves…


	4. Envy

Chapter 4 - Envy

He can’t sleep. The weather outside is foul and rattles the windowpanes as he stares at the ceiling. Down the hall he can hear the boy’s godfather snoring, a horrific sound in itself. His arm throbs painfully where it lies against his steadily rising and falling chest. The curse has lasted longer than he expected but then he perhaps should be fighting it more than he is. 

At the stroke of one, from the grandfather clock downstairs he rises from the bed. It is not unusual for sleep to elude him. Donning his thin black robe he pads soundlessly down the hallway towards the stairs. His mothers voice echo’s silently in his mind, ‘A glass of warm milk cures lots of things’. A wry smile quirks at his lips unchecked at the thought of his mother, a witch for whom milk may have cured many things. He doubts mere milk can cure his problems. Gritting his teeth against the cold of the wooden floor beneath his bare feet he unconsciously finds himself pausing beside the boy’s bedroom door. 

The door is closed. 

Would it be any other normal teenagers room he would not bat an eyelid but the boy is far from normal. A professors old habits die hard, and as he goes to reach for the handle to the door he has to refrain himself from opening it. He is no longer the boy’s professor. He should not care anymore. 

Removing his hand from its hovering position above the door handle he turns to continue his trek down to the kitchen. He hears it then. The sound is just a whisper even in the silence of the hall. Those without his experience might interpret the sound as something innocent but he knows better. He knows those sounds. He knows how they are made, and what the wizard must look like that’s making them. 

A shudder runs up his spine, and ends in an angry snap at the back of his skull. He refuses to acknowledge the well of emotion that bubbles up in his chest as images so long repressed spring to mind. Gritting his teeth he pushes the unmanageable emotion aside in favor of anger as he reaches for the door again. This time he has no hesitation in gripping the handle and pushing it open. 

It is dark in the room. Lit only by the fire embers still flickering in the hearth his onyx eyes take a moment to adjust to the room. There is no mistaking the identities of the two pale figures entwined on the bed. The lily-white skin of the boy radiates the glow of the fire, like an iridescent moon trapped beneath a bronzed sunrise. From where he stands he can see the perspiration glistening like rivers between the muscles of the elder boy’s back. Despite the curtain of fiery orange hair obscuring his view he can see the boy’s face beneath his tormentor. 

He can see too, the leather strap wrapped tightly about the younger boy’s neck. 

In silence he watches their frenzied movements the couple unaware of their audience. The younger boy’s lips have begun to turn blue as the strap is tightened with each thrust from the elder boy above him. The scent of blood taints the air as the couple crescendo together soundlessly. 

It is only now he realizes his breathing matches that of the younger boy’s desperate gasps for air. The strap is loosened quickly as the elder boy rises from the bed. The younger boy still wreaths about in the sheets choking for air, the red welt around his neck so stark against his pale skin. Automatically his fists clench as he sees for the first time the crimson puddles and smears on the bed spread. It is only apparent where the blood has come from as the younger boy rolls over exposing his back that is shredded and cut in a pattern much like a patchwork quilt.

He knows he should not feel this way. That it should be with outrage that he has discovered the pair but it is certainly not anger that fuels his rapid heart beat and soaks his palms with sweat. 

He is discovered quickly. 

The red headed boy stands in shadow by the window seat, staring at him through the darkness. He matches the younger wizard’s stare with one of his own emotionally devoid expressions. There is an unspoken conversation that passes between them, as the focus of the tension lies gasping for air on the bed. The stare continues and he will not be beaten down. Anger fueled by an emotion entirely foreign to him rises in his chest as the boy on the bed lets out a final choked gasp before shooting his own neglected load all over himself. He watches as the boy collapses not breathing on the bed. A twitch of a smirk catches the corner of the red heads lips and he realizes that he himself is erect and hard. Finding himself unable to control the shuddering fury that rises from deep down in his chest and threatens to explode from his fingertips he snarls angrily at the red head. 

Without thought he turns and strides from the room. A boy will not mock him. He will not lower himself to exacting revenge on something he has no desire to claim for himself. Ignoring the part of him that reminds him the younger boy may need medical attention he takes the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time. His mind is awash with fiery images of his own life, and his own misdeeds. He is no saint and he will not play the innocent party when he himself has dealt out worse to his master’s captives during his time in service. 

Bypassing the fridge he goes straight for the decanter of amber liquid nestled in the cupboard above the sink. What milk will not cure, whisky will. 

Throwing himself into the chair at the table he sips liberally from the bottle in an attempt to drown the feeling he has now identified in his chest. 

Glaring at nothing he grips the neck of the decanter so tight his knuckles turn white. 

Severus Snape is envious of no one especially not of a Weasley…


	5. Greed

Chapter 5 - Greed

Through the window he watches the red head beneath the willow. Obscured by the weeping branches of the tree the boy sits beneath the boy’s disgusting habit is disguised from the world. The thin trails of grey smoke that seep through the branches however do not go unmissed by him. There is only one red head in this house that is cocky enough as to smoke while his parents are in the kitchen making breakfast. He grinds his teeth as he stares at the figure beneath the willow, images of last night flashing through his mind. His fists clench as he hears the back door swing open and the skinny frame of the younger boy appear. He’s carrying two steaming mugs of coffee as he pads carelessly barefoot across the uncut lawn. He wears a green turtle neck sweater, no doubt too weak to cast his own concealment charms. 

They meet under the willow and share a brief but deep kiss. He clenches his fists tighter as he watches them sit side by side on the stone bench, sharing the remains of the cigarette and their coffee. He should not care that they are together. He should not care that underneath the boy’s sweater lie the marks of possession of another man. He growls silently to himself as he watches the pair converse quickly beneath the willow. He cannot draw his attention away even when he sees them kiss again, the possessive hand of the red head cupping the younger boy through his jeans, while the other runs through mussed up brown hair fiercely. 

“Harry! Breakfast!” A wicked, self-satisfied grin twitches at the corner of his lips as the pair spring apart as the mutt’s voice pierces the sanctuary of the backyard. 

“Coming!” The boy calls back and disengages himself quickly from the red head to scurry alone back into the house. He listens as the back door closes before watching as the red head stubs out the remains of his cigarette and begins a casual wander back towards the house. The red heads at the back steps when he seems him in the window watching. An over confident smirk twitches at the red heads lips as he purposefully adjusts himself, in view of the window. He growls and pulls away rapidly from the window the silent burn of want bubbling inside of him. 

In the kitchen the usual chaos reigns supreme. He takes two pieces of toast and a cup of tea and moves out into the observatory, out of the way. He cannot trust himself to see the green eyed boy, to converse with him so casually when such feelings have arisen. There had once been a time he would have sooner have cut his own hand off than think of the boy in this way. He had promised the boy’s mother to protect him, to save him from the others. He is sure this is not the way she meant but he is powerless to stop himself, when such temptation lies before him. 

“Sleepless night Severus?” That voice. That smug, self-congratulating tone of voice of a boy who thinks he’s won. He glances up at the tall red head that’s leaning casually against the doorframe a mug of coffee in his clutches as he pretends to stare out at the birds on the fence. He doesn’t trust himself to reply so simply sips from his own tea, his gaze narrowing as the elder red head hardly contains his smirk. 

There’s silence as the red head continues to smirk into his coffee, unaware of the building irritation in the elder wizard. He chooses his words carefully, chewing over them until they’re just right. 

“He is mine and he was promised to me.” He pauses and sips from his tea, his gaze not leaving that of the red heads. “If you touch him again I will remove you permanently from existence.” A twitch of a grim smile catches his lips as he goes back to his cup of tea leaving a heavy malicious silence. 

“You can’t make me, he came to me. He wants me.” He chews his lip in mild amusement as he watches the cracks appear in the red heads cocksure façade. The boy knows what he is capable of, what he will do to him yet he forges blindly ahead. 

“Perhaps,” He pauses for emphasis and having finished his tea stands up from the chair, to rise to his full height above the red head. He knows he strikes an imposing figure, and years as his professor at school have trained him well. “But it is to me alone he is loyal, I who will not betray him.” The red head swallows nervously as he stares, still defiantly into his eyes. 

“You jealous, greedy son of a bitch.” Childish insults, not an unexpected last resort. He perks up at the word ‘greed’. He had not considered the emotion swirling around inside of him as greed but in a way he is. Greedy to be the only one to capture the boy’s attention. Greedy of his time, his gaze and his concern. The boy is an addiction just like his mother was, an unexplainable need to have all of it to himself. 

He smirks to himself and nods rather confidently at the red head who’s strategically taken two steps back towards the kitchen, his wand in hand. 

“Yes I am,” A statement rather than a self-analizing question, there is no need to give the boy the impression he was right. “And I suggest you don’t come between me and my greed.” His eyes twinkle with unhidden threat and the red head takes flight, like a frightened bird. He smiles and sits back down in the chair, the sun just now warming the conservatory in a warm glow. He is content referring to himself as greedy. It is a label for the emotion inside of him that he can tolerate. It is far easier to say it is greed for the boy’s attention that drives him, rather than something else.


	6. Lust

Chapter 6 – Lust  
The weather has turned cold and the fire in his room does little to dissuade the draughts creeping around him. He sits in his armchair in his bedroom, staring out of the window watching the pure white snowflakes cling to the glass. He know’s his time draws nearer, as day becomes night and summer to winter. The end is brewing beneath the surface, the thin fabric of calm barely containing the chaos that will soon be unleashed upon the world. He tightens the blankets over his shoulders as an icy tendril of cold air snakes down his back. 

He hears him before he sees him. The patter of feet on the floor boards outside his closed door. He knows he’s staring at the handle as if those green eyes are staring at him with just as much intensity. He can feel the ripple in his wards as the boy reaches up to tentatively knock. Were he not intrigued to what has drawn the boy out of his bed at this time of night, he might not have given his ascent to enter. Such as it is, he mutters ‘come’, knowing he is unable to deny the boy anything he so desires. 

He doesn’t shift in his position by the window, simply watches in the reflection of the glass as the boy pads into the room. He turns to close the door behind him and he takes a moment to appraise his dress. The boy stands up in his winter pyjama’s, royal blue with shooting stars, winking moons and spinning planets. He smiles grimly at the picture he makes, a man in a 14 year-olds-body. The boy turns back around from the door and takes two tentative steps towards him before pausing. He watches as he twists his fingers in his lap, nervous as if he isn’t sure he should be standing here. Another icy draught springs from a darkened corner of the room and he watches as the boy shudders before boldly crossing what’s left of the space between them. Still he doesn’t acknowledge the boy, merely staring at his reflection in the glass as the boy comes to stand beside his chair. 

“I,” His voice wavers as he opens his mouth to speak, before hastily slamming it closed again when the sound he makes comes out all wrong. He smiles inwardly to himself, as he stares into those emerald green eyes in the reflection of the glass, as if seeing them through a filter might lesson their effect on him. He is not spared such luck and the boy changes his glance to stare back at his own onyx eyes in the reflection. Silence hangs thick in the chilled air, neither willing to break the others gaze as secrets pass between them, that no one else will ever understand. He sees his own pain reflected back at him in those emerald eyes, he sees the end just as he has predicted it. He watches as the boy blinks and the spell cast is broken. Automatically he closes his eyes, feeling the slight change in air as the boy leans down over him. 

The kiss is tentative; the boy’s chapped, cold lips pressing against his own unresponsive ones. It is a first and a last kiss. A first for the boy, and a last for him. He can feel every ounce of tension caught in the boy’s body as the kiss ends, soft warm breath brushing against his own cool lips and a pair of emerald eyes gazing at him in such close proximity. 

He has promised himself from the very beginning he will not respond when the time comes, but under the scrutiny of that gaze, of his own guilt he is powerless to stop himself. His eyes flicker open exposing himself to the final torturous gaze that will seal his fate. The boy understands what’s to come, it is written in the painful creases of his face, in the defiant sparkles in his irises and the determined pull of his breath. He knows already he will fight for him, take risks, take others lives but ultimately their time together is already at an end, even when something so new has just begun between them. 

The boy leans forward again this time without hesitation. The kiss is powerful, demanding and determined. His traitorous body responds and he opens his mouth skillfully meeting the boy’s tongue with his own in a passionate play of dominance and ownership. His hands remain rooted to the carved wooden arms of the chair as the boy moans into the kiss his hands tugging at his own clothing in a desperate, fumbling attempt to undress. The kiss breaks and he watches as the boy pants breathlessly at his side, himself only slightly awaken by the boy’s youthful pawing. With a nod, he watches as the boy undresses, his fingers gripping into the wooden arms as each expanse of creamy white flesh is exposed to him. The boy stands up in just his small cotton briefs, the fabric tented and stretched already around the growing damp patch. He stares at the boy in silence, his gaze appreciating each curve, each dimple, each scar and scratch on the boy’s alabaster skin. He is beautiful, like his mother once was. A tremor runs up his spine at the thought, and in his silent appreciation of the boy standing before him his guilt comes crushing down upon him. This moment has been hanging over him since the boy was born, predicted in the ramblings of his own dying mother. 

His tired thoughts are driven away as he watches the boy move between his knees tentative, sinewy young fingers reaching down to part his own robe. He watches in the flicker of the firelight as the fingers smooth up his knees and over his thighs touching flesh that hasn’t known the touch of another for years. He knows what those searching fingers will find and he inhales sharply as the cold digits gently circle his groin, deftly outlining the triangle of hair, the tight sack and the slowly filling length. In truth he’s surprised it still works, that it still twitches with nervous energy beneath the warm exploring hands coaxing him into hardness. Years of curses can leave such lasting effects, but it seems for him he has been spared such a final humiliation. With his fingers still gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles white and nails picking at splinters he watches as the boy pushes open the rest of the robe before kneeling between his knees. His thighs go tight as he watches the boy lick his lips, moistening them with a flick of his sinfully pink tongue. His eyes never leave his, as he watches the trail of kisses the boy laps up his thighs. When the warm wet lips encircle his head what little control he’s held onto all these years slips through his fingers likes sand. 

He’s lost in the sensation, his tight grip on the arms of the chair forgotten as he slips a hand into the unruly mess of hair on the boy’s head, while the other gently fingers a hollowed cheek as the boy’s sucks his cock in long fluid strokes. His breathing’s labored now as he watches the fan of lashes across the boy’s sculptured cheeks, a look of reverence and intense concentration passing over the boy’s face as he opens his eyes to stare up at him. 

The boy pulls back a little, a glistening trail of spit connecting them until the last moment went it breaks like a stream of magic flicking in the air. He’s breathless as he stares into those emerald eyes, an emotion shining back at him that he knows he is totally unable to stop himself returning. With a hand still cupping his cheek he coaxes the boy to stand, watching as he tugs the last remaining clothing from the boy’s body to reveal the slender curved tool that springs up against the boy’s lower stomach. 

He lost now. Damned for forever just as he’d foreseen. 

He crooks his finger at the boy beckoning him to him. With ungraceful, adolescent limbs the boy crawls up onto his lap the blanket still thrown about his own shoulders providing little protection against the draughts swirling up around the room. His hands work in perfect, skilled unison dragging the boy to him, confidently exploring every inch of the boy’s frame as they share another of their last kisses. His potion stained fingers follow each fresh, and old scar on the boy’s back, each one mapping the pain the boy has tried to forget. He knows the red head is one of many who have tried to help but it will only be by his own hand that the pain is finally lifted, and whole new level of pain begins. That knowledge is a bitter pill that sticks in his throat as he parts the boy’s cheeks and guides his throbbing rod inside him. The movement’s raw, tight and burns even with the meager fluid that leaks from him to try and ease the way. It may not be a first for either of them, but it will be the only one that lives on in the darkest parts of their memories. He thrusts forward and upward, tight hands gripping the boy’s waist. The boy cries out, his head thrown back in a mixed show of pleasure and pain. This is what they need, what has been building between them for years. He trusts again with a primal grunt, feeling the need to mark the boy as his own. 

Together they shift as one, brutal yet liquid smooth movements accentuated by the flicker of the orange firelight on their bodies. Even in the icy cold room they perspire, and he leans forward to lick the trail of passion from the boy’s hairless chest, drawing a choked scream from the boy who’s wildly bucking above him. 

It all lasts little more than 15minutes but to him it may as well have been a lifetime. They climax together, his name a reverent whisper on the boy’s lips as he shoots his creamy, essence all over his chest. The boy collapses atop of him, his face pressed into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, and his hand pressed shakingly over his heart. Together they lie in each other’s arms, the chill of the room nothing compared to the chill of their hearts as love is created, lust lingers, and fear entraps them. 

He knows it is over; he is powerless to stop what will transpire between them. He will die with the bitter memories of those emerald green eyes that for only a second, belonged to him…


	7. Anger

Chapter 7 – Anger 

The war has finally come to an end for him. 

All around him he can hear the sizzle of curses, the explosion of magic and the screams of pain, agony and death. It is just as he imagined it would be. He has fought on in a world of his own, each curse flying from his lips like a script he’s memorized since he was a boy. Bodies fall around him, yet he fights on knowing his fate, since the moment he stepped foot on the chosen battleground. Rubble beneath him is soaked with blood, the stone that had once kept him safe, as a child will now bury him in his death. 

He saw it coming, the curse that has brought him to his knees. The sting of the curse is wrapping its way around his body, encasing him in the black shroud his master has unleashed upon them, those left alive and what remains of his followers. He know’s it is his master’s final stand, a last effort to save himself in the face of defeat. The black mark on his forearm that has controlled his life since it was burnt into his skin, has signaled the end. 

He kneels, head down, breathing broken and difficult. His hair hangs mattered and soiled in his face, as the blood of those he’s killed drips from his fingertips. He closes his eyes and prays for forgiveness as the crunch of rubble beside his head draws his attention. He doesn’t fight his master’s curse wrapping around his body, as he looks up from the ground. He know’s who it is standing over him because he’s seen this all before. 

The boy stands over him, emerald eyes blazing in anger, defeat and fear. His robes are shredded, burnt and scorched to an unrecognizable mess that had once been his uniform. There is victory on the horizon but you cannot see it in this boy’s eyes. He stares into those emerald eyes, unafraid of the emotion shining back at him. The boy’s crying now, tears creating tracks in his dirt smeared face and falling like rain drops down on top of him. 

“Please.” He croaks drawing a painful breath from within the constriction of his body now overtaken by the curse slowly killing him. He promised himself he will not beg for his death, but the longer the boy stands there the harder it becomes. The boy shakes his head vehemently, his green eyes shining with fear, pain and that emotion he has waited his entire life to see. He knew it would be hard, more difficult than what the boy has ever faced. He knows this is the moment when what’s left of the boy he fell in love with, becomes the man forever lost in the pain he has created. However he knows it is the only way, and begs again with a weakening resolve. They haven’t long and he has been ready for this moment. 

Still shaking, and crying the boy raises his wand, the smoldering tip pointed straight at his heart. He speaks the words, along with the boy helping him every step of the way. They will do this together, even if only one of them will live to remember it. The explosion of pain that rips through his body draws a scream from him and sends him sprawled to the ground, to twist and wreath in agony. It lasts for what seems like forever before it’s gone leaving his body broken, battered and devoid of what little life he has left to hold on to. 

From now on he knows what happens, as he watches the boy crumple to the ground beside him, sobs racking his body as his heart breaks. The war has fallen silent around them as he stares at the boy, those shining emerald eyes reminding him so much of his mother and what has brought him here. 

In his nightmares his death didn’t feel like this, and he tries to block out the feeling in his own chest as he watches the boy cry for him, and what he has done. When it is all over and he is gone, the boy will be forever in pain. Anger is a sin, no longer his to bear. 

The scene plays out around him just as he’d seen in his nightmare. Dumbledore falls to his knees beside him, his name on the man’s lips sounding more painful than he every remembered it being. He ignores it all though and stares into those emerald eyes beside him, his heart lost forever on a boy. Unlike his dreams his last thoughts are of the boy, Harry Potter will forever have been his life, his love, and his death.

Finally he takes his last breath, the boy’s name a ghostly whisper on his lips as death claims a life, and two hearts. 

 

THE END

(Authors Note - Hope you enjoyed remember reviews are most welcome and appreciated.)


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